Cinnamon’s Courageous Heart: Sweethearts of Country Music, Book 5

by Summers, Ryan Jo

  Cinnamon’s Courageous Heart

  Sweethearts of Country Music, Book 5

  Ryan Jo Summers

  ©2019, Ryan Jo Summers

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  While this novel is a work of fiction, the author respectfully and fictitiously used real locations, businesses, music venues, television shows, awards, song titles, social media networks, streaming services, and music media networks throughout the story for entertainment purposes. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  SWEET PROMISE PRESS

  PO BOX 72

  BRIGHTON, MI 48116

  Dedicated to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Thank You for always providing me with new opportunities.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  More from Sweet Promise Press

  More from this Series

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Cinnamon Chadwick blew out a breath full of frustration, her auburn bangs lifting in the process.

  “I don’t know who I ticked off, Nick, but I’m already so sorry. I just want it to stop.” She glared at her brother who quietly sipped coffee across her kitchen table. Her eyes landed on the I Heart Country Music mug he was using and wondered what in the world she’d been thinking about when she bought it. Well, she did love country music, and she was good at making it. That wasn’t the root of her problems right now. It only compounded them. “I swear, if one more thing happens, I’ll lose it.”

  Nick released the mug and held his hands out. “And I humbly apologize for my part in your list of troubles. Again.”

  She started ticking off items on her fingers, counting as she went. “Yes, in two weeks’ time, you’ve trashed my house. My identity has been stolen. I haven’t seen Jasper in two days. Since your last attempt at remodeling.” She snickered at that. “The band is going on tour soon and we need to practice, except none of us can seem to make the time right now. Oh yeah, and the check engine light on my Tracker came on yesterday.”

  Nick brightened. “Hey, I can take a look at that check engine light. I saw this show—”

  “No! You’ve helped me enough already, thanks.” Cinnamon picked up a slick business card and flicked her fingernail against it as she read: No Place like Home. Silas Black: construction, remodeling and general handyman. I make shiplap happen. She grinned at the tagline and then she sent it sailing across to Nick. “You better just hope this Silas Black can fix the stuff you tried to help me with.” She exhaled another breath. “It’s bad timing with the band leaving soon.”

  “Well, remodeling is messy. It might be better if you’re not here.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Here? In my own home? I should be here, looking for my cat and watching Mr. Black.” He shrugged, not able to meet her eye. Exhaling again, she moved on to another sore subject. “So, tell me this, brother dear. With all our excessive, crazy security on everything online, how can someone even manage to steal my identity?”

  “I suppose some people are just talented that way.”

  Cinnamon slammed her palms on the table, jostling their half empty mugs. “I have to create a password for every new site or change the existing one with each use. Do you know how hard it is to come up with new, original, long words each month?”

  Nick shook his head. “Nope. I simply change the spelling on the same three words and change the number one more space.”

  “Urgh.” Cinnamon rolled her eyes. “And I’m the one who gets stolen. Figures! I also have to go through an entire page of security questions. Like where I went to school, best friend’s name, mother’s hometown, and on and on.”

  Again, Nick shrugged. “They say identity theft is usually done by the people who know you the best. The ones who would know all that personal stuff.”

  “Did you steal my identity, Nick?”

  Nick laughed, a rich baritone harmony. “Sis, of all the people I’d consider taking their identity, you’re at the very bottom of my list.”

  “Spoken like a true brother. Okay. Fine. But why now? With the band taking off, this isn’t a good time.”

  “I agree.” He finished the coffee and set the mug down, then moved to the door. “Bad things never happen at opportune times. Besides, I’ve heard you play. You need lots of practice.” He bolted as she rushed out of her chair. Her hand connected briefly with his arm as he escaped.

  Once he was gone, she rinsed their mugs and went out to the barn. She had enough time to take Galoot out for a ride before Silas Black showed up for their eleven o’clock appointment. Her boots crunched through the fresh straw once she entered the barn. Hooves pounded against the wooden stall, and she smiled.

  “Hey, Galoot. You miss me, fella?” She entered the black gelding’s stall and affectionately rubbed his neck. “I don’t suppose you know where Jasper is hiding, do you?”

  Horses are fantastic at pointing out anyone who doesn’t belong in their world. Galoot bobbed his head and sniffed for treats. “Later, buddy.” She tacked him up, and swung aboard, eager for a relaxing ride. It might help ease her mind over the list she’d shared with Nick. “Let’s go.”

  The cold wind caressed her face and lifted her hair beneath her knit cap. She caught the horse’s natural rhythm as he crunched through the dried leaves. She loved riding any time, but wintertime was her favorite. The holidays were in the past. The earth was on hold, waiting with bated breath, for spring to pop up. The Tennessee heat of summer had yet to begin and the dreary rains of autumn were behind her. To Cinnamon, late winter meant preparing for what was to come. And she had so much to prepare for.

  A tear escaped and she brushed it aside, startled by it. Her life had really taken an upturn recently; she had no reason to sob. Last year she bought her first house. Admittedly, it was in need of a little work, but it was charming as it was, and it was hers. After purchasing the house, she adopted Galoot. She’d waited many years to have room for a horse of her own.

  And she was finally part of a successful country music band. The Lipstick Outlaws were an awesome group of girls, and she loved each of them like sisters. They’d celebrated some huge musical milestones together and this tour was their first really big break.

  Considering all the
good things she’d been blessed with in the last year, what were minor inconveniences like ID theft, check engine lights, and a demolished house?

  She bent low on Galoot’s dark neck and let his pounding hooves drive out her worries. House, identity theft, practicing and touring . . . it all faded, until only Jasper remained in her mind. If she could just find her cat.

  The naked redbuds and green holly hills gave way to a thin forest, fringed by groves of pecan trees. They led to a dense canopy of trees populated by pines, oaks, maples and black walnuts. Sunlight shone through the bare limbs, dappling the ground and warming Cinnamon’s back. Musical melodies played in her head in time to the steady hoofbeats as they made their way along the soft needle paths. Snippets of lyrics joined in. She stopped Galoot at a stream, gurgling with mountain-fed water, so he could drink. She recorded some lyrics on her phone while she waited, chuckling at the water dripping off his wet muzzle. She checked the time. Darn. It sure passed fast.

  “Come on, Galoot, we gotta go.”

  Realizing she was running late, she kicked Galoot into a run as they broke free of the trees and topped the last hill before the house. Her pulse jumped when she saw the big, dark blue Ford pickup parked in her driveway. Ladders and extension cords were secured to the racks. A white hard hat hung from a hook. Silver toolboxes lined the length of the bed, and a big dent crowned the driver’s side behind the rear wheel. No doubt it was a working man’s truck. So, where was the driver?

  She kicked out of the saddle and dropped the reins on the ground. Galoot immediately lowered his head and began a hopeful search for grass.

  “Hello!” she called.

  Cinnamon sensed him before she saw him. Instinctively, she turned from the big blue truck to the porch and her heart skipped a beat as his boots thumped along the wooden boards. She started her inspection with the scuffed work boots, steel toe probably, with paint splatters and ingrained dust in the creases. Bootcut jeans flared around the ankles, slowly tapering the further up she worked her gaze, to stretch over a flat abdomen. She swallowed. So far, he was delicious.

  He wore a blue and white checked shirt, tucked in, and a cream-colored chambray shirt untucked. Neither one could hide his broad shoulders and deep chest. She gave a little cough as her appraisal reached his face. Dark beard, somewhere just past scruff and enough to be attractive. He wore an easy smile, had dark brown eyes like fudge, and wavy midnight black hair covered in a Nashville Sounds ball cap.

  Oh my. Cinnamon put a hand to her beating chest. He was a handsome hunk of male. He reminded her of a cleaner cut Waylon Jennings.

  He stepped from the porch to meet her; hand extended in greeting as he caught her eye. He was tall, reaching about six feet and towering over her five feet, five inches.

  “Hi, I’m Silas Black, here to meet Cynthia Chadwick.”

  She took his hand, astounded by the firm grip. It almost tore her breath away. “I’m Cynthia, but I go by Cinnamon.” She tossed her red, shoulder length locks by way of explanation.

  “Cinnamon,” he repeated, with a small nod of his head. She had the impression he approved. He stepped closer and she caught of whiff of musk and spice . . . and dust. White powder was ground into the creases of his hands and dried chunks of white mud filled his knuckles. She also noticed the fruity smell of his breath, making her think he’d been chewing fruit-flavored gum, or maybe, just eaten an apple.

  “Before we get started, here’s a copy of my builder’s license. And some recent references for you to check out.”

  He handed her some typed pages. His brown eyes seemed so honest. His smile so big.

  “Thanks. I bought this house as is, about a year ago.” She shook herself back to the moment, and the reason Silas Handsome Black was in her yard. “And my intention was to remodel it. My well-intending brother assured me he could handle this. He’d seen a few HGTV shows and figured one remodel was just as easy as another. And now I have a mess.” She gave a little laugh as she gestured toward the porch and front door.

  Silas whipped a heavy chrome clipboard off the porch railing and motioned for her to go first. “HGTV is good. I catch a show here and there. However, watching a few home flip shows isn’t extensive enough to start demo and construction. There are lots of details those shows never cover.”

  They entered the house, foyer first, then the hall leading to the open kitchen and dining room. “Like what?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Walls. Or lack of walls.” Silas looked around in open-mouthed wonder. “Your brother did this?”

  “Um hmm. I said I wanted a flowing, open air design. Except now I have no walls. Just . . .”

  “Studs. Those are studs.”

  “Right. Studs. Thanks. And I said I wanted different cabinets and now I have some old, and some, well . . . some gone.”

  Silas blinked, then gave a wag of his head. He pulled his jaw shut and scribbled some notes in his clipboard.

  “I actually suggested Nick give up the HGTV channel.”

  Again, he gave a slow nod. “That would be good. Well, there’s nothing here that I can’t handle. Let’s begin by you telling me what you have in mind and what your budget range is.”

  “Since the house has some age, I thought a retro farmhouse look would be nice. Not that modern farmhouse theme they showcase on the house flip shows. More like the real farmhouse from a century or two ago.” At his nod, she continued. “So, a deep sink and butcher block in the kitchen. Glass-fronted or frosted cabinets. Barnwood walls wherever possible.” She moved through the house, aware of him following, studying everything and making copious notes. The foyer led past what she used as her music room, and into the living room, which would go on to the kitchen and breakfast nook.

  “Nice fireplace.”

  “Yes, the house has two of them. This living room one and up in the master bedroom. I’d like them restored to as close to original as possible. Local stones or bricks. Big mantels. Clawfoot tub in the master bath.”

  “Okay, I’m getting your images. I’ll need to go outside and look at the foundation. I’d like to peek in your attic before we’re done here and there’s a few more basic things I need to check structurally. Beyond all that, what colors and patterns do you like?”

  She smiled, bringing her hands together. “Now that’s the best part. Painting and decorating. I was thinking raspberry pink for the kitchen, with a medium brown or nutmeg for trim and emphasis. Or tomato soup red with gray and white accents. In the living room, a rose with dark gray velvet toile or chintz. The small bath could be poppy red and emerald. The master bath could be mauve rose and chocolate brown or paprika and black.”

  His lips twitched. “You like red. Your combos sound . . . sultry. What about the master bedroom? Pink?”

  Cinnamon froze. “I . . . I’m not sure. I need to think on that more. Not pink. Things got crazy lately and I haven’t gotten that far. I’m leaving on tour soon . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Tour? You’re with a band? For real?” He lowered his clipboard as his eyebrows rose.

  She stood an inch straighter. “Yes, we’re the Lipstick Outlaws, an all-girl country rock band. And we leave for tour soon, so I won’t be around much.”

  Again, his lips twitched. “So, you won’t be here when I knock down your remaining walls. Or paint your bedroom lime green.”

  “No, not that color.” She shook her head, feeling a bit of blush creeping into her cheeks.

  “Electric yellow?”

  She caught the teasing in his tone, and the new light in his eye. It only amplified her blush. “No. Something subtle. Something elegant. Something . . .”

  “Romantic?”

  She coughed, gagging on something that just materialized in her throat. A hairball? “Let me get back to you on that room.”

  “Fair enough.” He leaned against the wall. “Tell me about this band. Lipstick what? Never heard of it. It sounds like a kind of cosmetic for biker chicks.”

  “Maybe, but our fans like it.” Sh
e shrugged, then arched an eyebrow at him. “Lipstick Outlaws. Do you listen to country rock?”

  “No, I’m more of a fan of alternative rock. Some call it Heartland Rock. Bruce Springsteen, Bob Seger, The Eagles, Billy Joel, Tom Petty, and Kansas are good examples. Some of my favorites.” He ticked the names off on his fingers. “How’d you come to be in a band? An all-female band?”

  She tried to gauge his interest. Genuine or condescending? She’d run into both since joining the Outlaws. Some guys seemed to think they were like twelve-year-olds, beating pots with spoons in daddy’s garage, while others thought it was really cool. He’d set his clipboard aside and rested comfortably against the wall, one leg crossed over the other. His head tilted to one side.

  “Simple. I’ve played the fiddle and banjo since I was eight or nine. About a year ago, I saw an online ad for auditions at the Turquoise Horse for the formation of a band. We’ve had some success and done some touring to open for other acts. We’ve played several major venues around the country while we opened for Miranda Lambert. We were in Vegas, performing at the CMA Awards. Now we’re gearing up for our own headlining tour soon.”

  Silas studied her for a minute, then she watched a smile spread across his face. The air eased out of her lungs. He gave her a nod. “I’m impressed.”

  “What for? You never heard us play. You never even heard of us.”

  “I’m impressed with anyone who has the courage to identify their dream and go out and chase it. So many people don’t and wish they had. You are, and successfully so. Cinnamon, I applaud you and your band mates.”

  Heat fanned her face. This was a new reaction altogether! “I wouldn’t call myself courageous, I just like music.” She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, acutely aware of his penetrating gaze. “Anyway, that’s just part of the craziness lately. The whole endless preparations for the tour and practice, the house being in shambles, my identity getting stolen, my car throwing me dash warning lights, and Jasper escaping . . .” She let out a long sigh and waved her hand. “Welcome to my crazy life.”